Scoop

by Rene Gutteridge

  There was also a lot to be said for Tate’s intelligence. Not just a talking head, Tate seemed to understand what he was reporting. If he were given the chance, Hugo knew the young man could add some insight into certain topics. If only he didn’t have that smirk. That one, uncontrollable little smirk. Hugo wasn’t sure if he would hire Tate again, knowing what he knew now. Of course, desperate times called for desperate measures, so he supposed he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. But still, in all his years in the news business, he had never gone to such extremes to make a show work.

  The smirk first appeared on Tate’s fourth broadcast. Gilda took a four-car accident story, because it was a more recent event and involved a lot of detail. When it came time for a plane-crash story, Tate read the prompter like a pro. The script ended with, “And tonight, two families grieve the loss of two extraordinary men who were simply out for a nice day in the sky.”

  And then he smirked. Hugo had not noticed it until that story.

  Tate’s smirk was unbelievably detrimental to any kind of tragic news story. Hugo had spent hours with the kid, trying to help him realize that he smirked after his segments. But no matter how much they worked, the smirk always appeared. Tate tried his best to frown, to look serious, to capture the tragic moment in his expression, yet it was useless. The smirk always followed, and Hugo knew it made for a disastrous perception. Hugo would’ve even settled for feigned empathy. But nothing Tate tried could get past that uncontrollable expression on his face.

  So Hugo decided there was only one thing he could do, and it worked out so well that he had celebrated by buying himself a new pair of shoes. Hugo wasn’t one for rewarding himself much.

  Now they gave all the lighthearted stories to Tate and all the sad or tragic stories to Gilda. As far as Hugo knew, nobody had caught on to the formula, but it had worked out beautifully. Thanks to the deep vertical crease between Gilda’s eyebrows, she could carry any tragic story and look completely serious and saddened by it even if she wasn’t.

  Of course, he’d told Gilda she was more experienced at those kinds of stories and that he needed her for that purpose. But in reality, it came down to an uncontrollable smirk and an unmentionable wrinkle.

  It was pure magic. But it also kept Hugo on his toes, because he had to review every TelePrompTer script with unfailing accuracy, or things could come undone very quickly. It was especially tricky when breaking news was involved.

  As if the smirk weren’t enough, Tate also had a laugh that sounded like a wheeze. It was the most awful thing Hugo had ever heard. Even a slight chuckle from Tate sounded like someone needed to run for an inhaler. So everyone knew, including the weatherman, Sam Leege, and the sportscaster, Leon Black, that they were never to crack a joke if Tate was going to be on camera. Everyone had gotten used to this. Leon and Gilda always shared space before the sports segment, so that was the best time to get a few jokes in. And occasionally Sam, who was very witty, made jokes during his segment. At such times, Tate’s microphone was always turned down, so it just looked like he was smiling. Or smirking.

  Tate had a few superstitions that Hugo chose to accommodate, but the most serious was Tate’s belief that he could not anchor a show on his own. He’d told Hugo this in his first interview, and Hugo had brushed it off as inexperience. But that one night when Gilda was out on assignment, Tate made a believer out of Hugo. In fact, it wasn’t a superstition. Tate simply couldn’t do the news alone. So Hugo lived with it, which really hadn’t been a problem, because Gilda wasn’t going anywhere. She’d once done the news while fighting off pneumonia, so there was a slim-to-none chance that Tate would ever have to go it alone.

  Hugo glanced at one of the monitors, where Gilda was getting situated at the news desk. He checked his watch. She was out there a little early. He’d been trying to avoid her for most of the late afternoon because he wasn’t sure what the fallout was going to be from her talk with his assistant. Hayden had told him it went well. “Sometimes the truth is hard to take, but it’s always the best,” she’d said.

  He’d taken that to mean that Gilda had finally seen the light concerning her dark spots and wrinkles. Really, his plan was absolutely perfect. He told Hayden to tell Gilda that some of the girls were going to a Botox party that coming weekend. Hugo knew that Gilda would feel less threatened if everyone was doing it. Now, of course, he was going to have to arrange a Botox party and spread the word about it to the other women at the station, but that was tomorrow’s problem. Tonight, he just needed to get through the newscast.

  Roarke Keegan, the director of the assignment desk, rushed in with breaking news. “A tanker truck’s overturned, and traffic is backed up for three miles on the interstate. Ed’s already up in the chopper and is going to cover it.”

  “Thanks, Roarke. Keep me posted.” Hugo went to work on adding it to the script.

  Ed Klawski was a godsend. He was a retired air force pilot who just wanted something to do with his day. So even though they couldn’t afford a real helicopter reporter, Ed did a fairly nice job of covering breaking news from the sky. But he had a bad tendency to shout out the report like he was back in Danang.

  Hugo continued to flip through the agenda. Ray would cover an escalating dispute over pigs on private property, Jill was assigned to report on a controversial execution at the prison, and Trent was doing a report on the efficacy of the over-the-counter drug Beano. As the sound tech was attaching her microphone, Hugo noticed Gilda wasn’t her normal chatterbox self. Her face looked more drawn than usual, and she was staring off as if she were alone in a quiet room. He watched Tate ask her something, concern in his eyes, and she mumbled something back, nodded, and then looked away.

  Hayden opened the door to the control room. Hugo beckoned her over.

  “Hayden, you said that you thought it went well today with Gilda.”

  “Yes.”

  “So she didn’t seem upset?”

  “I think she took it well.”

  “I thought you said it went fine. Something about the truth is hard to take, you said, but she seemed okay.”

  “We had a real heart to heart, which seems like something Gilda doesn’t get to do very often.”

  Hugo shifted his weight, trying not to lose his patience. He checked his watch. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened?”

  “Well, you told me to tell her about the Botox party that some of the girls were going to.”

  “Yes? And?”

  “We started talking about age and beauty and what real beauty is.”

  Hugo swallowed. “What do you mean?”

  “You know, just girl talk.” Hayden winked.

  “I don’t girl talk much, so you’re going to have to fill me in.” He leaned toward her, feeling his eyes widen, which made her eyes widen.

  She hesitated, took a little breath, and then said, “Well, Mr. Talley, I just felt that I needed to share the truth with Gilda.”

  “Th-the truth? What truth? The truth about what?”

  Hayden shrugged. “About what beauty really is. It comes from the inside, you know. We all age, and this world wants us to think that it’s all about what we look like on the outside, but what really matters is the heart.”

  Hugo felt himself smiling. He didn’t know why. Possibly because, in theory, yes, the heart matters. But this wasn’t reality. This was the news business. What was she thinking

  “Mr. Talley, are you okay?”

  He tried to focus on her. “What?”

  “Your hands are shaking.”

  He looked down and balled them into fists behind his back. “I’m fine. I’m…I’m just…” He sighed. “So is she going to the Botox party or not?”

  “Well, I don’t know. She asked if I received an invitation, and then she asked Jill, and of course none of us really had received anything official.”

  Hugo’s face dampened with sweat in a half a second. “She…she was asking around?”

  “I assured her not to worry, Mr
. Talley, and that if the worst of her problems was that she got invited to exclusive parties that others didn’t, then she’s living the good life.”

  Hugo slapped his forehead. This was one party that you didn’t want to be exclusive. “Hayden!” he barked.

  She jumped backward. “What?”

  “You were supposed to… It’s just that… You shouldn’t have…” Hugo wanted to scream. All she had to do was tell Gilda about a Botox party. How could it have gotten all screwed up like this? It was a foolproof plan!

  He looked at her alarmed face. “You didn’t happen to mention my name in all of this, did you?”

  Hayden looked like she didn’t want to speak, so he tried to soften his expression and smile, as if it was just a casual afterthought with no frightful consequences.

  She grinned. “Oh, Mr. Talley, I am so good at keeping secrets, especially about surprise parties. I figured you’d want to tell all the girls yourself.”

  Hugo wiped his hand across his forehead and managed a relieved, if not genuine smile. “Oh. Good.” At least he couldn’t be implicated. “All right, get back to work. We have a news show to run.” Hugo looked out at Gilda. She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t even focused.

  Neither was he.

  Chapter 5

  Ray shivered inside his lightweight jacket. With the microphone in his grip and his arms wrapped around himself, he studied his notes. There were several points he wanted to make. Through his voice-over, he told the basic story. First, he knew people would immediately identify with Petey Green, the neighbor who had to live with the stench, sound, and stigma of five next-door pigs. So he wanted to make sure to state the city ordinances concerning farm animals on private residential property. But he thought Elva Jones had a point too. After all, she and her family had lived there long before the rest of the neighborhood had moved in. Some research earlier in the day revealed that ten years ago she lost a small farm when the city zoned it commercial, and she was forced to sell it.

  Trying to force out of his head the thought of how cold he was, Ray read his notes over and over. That was one talent he’d perfected early in his career. He could rattle off an entire litany without ever glancing down, even amid distraction. A kid once pelted him with pebbles during a live shot, yet he managed to get through it without even a hint of hesitation. The delivery was all about concentration and focus. The story was about research and investigation.

  Ray was disappointed they weren’t going to be first up. He didn’t like the location from which they were shooting, and he would be glad to get out of there. Beaker stood by his mounted camera and signaled that the newscast was about to begin.

  Ray kept looking over his notes, hoping to bring out the real human story behind what, at the end of the day, was really a sideshow. It’s what people wanted to see. They loved a good conflict, especially with people like Elva Jones and Petey Green…people who didn’t understand in the least that they were being exploited for what was essentially entertainment. Sure, the pig law had news value, but without Ray’s help, it would have very little. People wanted to see what a woman living with a pigsty might look like and the mans reaction to it next door.

  Ray couldn’t stop feeling a little disgusted. Ben James, a reporter who had been with the station twenty years before retiring, once told him that eventually he would get over it. “You think you’re going to change the world,” Ben had said. “But the world always changes you, Ray. After a few years, I realized that this business was always going to be what it was. So I took the sensationalism and everything that came with it, I accepted it, and I did the best reporting I could. And you know, over the years, I think there were a few stories that at least made a small difference. I really believe that. And the rest? Well, you gotta do something to bring home a paycheck.” Ray had spent a sleepless night pondering Ben’s words…and the news story that they were covering at the time. A child had disappeared from a playground, and the probable outcome was looking more and more grim. Ray felt sick to his stomach every time they relentlessly used the story to hook the viewer.

  “News Channel 7 has uncovered shocking new details in the disappearance of David Blare.”

  “New at ten, learn what police are saying about a man who was seen near the park.”

  “After the break, learn why David’s parents are taking their anger out on police.”

  He hated every moment of it. He’d felt so ashamed when he arrived at the prayer vigil, feeling like he was intruding on a private moment for David’s friends and family. His producer had wanted quotes. How could you grab a sound bite from a person’s living nightmare?

  Ray and Beaker had wandered around looking for anyone who seemed willing to talk about it. The willing people had only known David distantly.

  Afterward, as Ray and Beaker were loading their equipment into the truck, he felt someone touch his shoulder. It was David Blares mother. Ray wasn’t sure whether to grab his microphone or embrace the woman and tell her how sorry he was for what she was going through.

  She had a stern look on her face, so he stared at the ground. “Mrs. Blare, I’m sorry, we’re just trying to cover this story. I tried to stay out of the way and—”

  She held up her hand. Then she placed it on his arm. “I want to thank you.”

  “Thank me?”

  “For keeping this story out in front of the public. It’s our best shot at getting David back.” Tears welled in her eyes, then she patted him on the arm and walked away. Ray felt the shame melt away, and he realized he was doing something important, even if he hadn’t known it or felt it at the time.

  He’d covered the story with all his energy for the next four days, working closely with the police and eyewitnesses to uncover clues while keeping the public alert for any signs of the boy.

  Then, one afternoon, Hugo had decided they wouldn’t cover it that day. Ray couldn’t believe it.

  “Mr. Talley, every day that we keep this in front of viewers may be the day someone comes forward with a clue or spots the car.”

  “I wish we could, Ray,” Hugo had said, “but we’ve got a packed lineup today. There’s just too much to cover. We might be able to squeeze it into the six o’clock, but there’s no room in the ten o’clock.”

  “But sir, I just think—”

  Chad Arbus swiveled his chair toward Ray. “It’s a dying story, Ray. Pure and simple. The public has lost interest. We move on. Period.”

  Ray’s hands were tied. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d personally let down Mrs. Blare.

  “Three minutes,” Beaker said, and Ray snapped back into the reality of the cold night and his upcoming pigsty segment.

  Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw something. He glanced up to see a man standing about twenty-five feet away, his face darkened by the shadow of a tree. He stood perfectly still, his arms crossed, his feet spread apart like he was ready for something to happen.

  Ray was used to people stopping to watch, but this was a dark, quiet street, and nobody was out watching anything.

  Except this man.

  Beaker noticed too. “Is that Mr. Green?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. We’ve been knocking on his door all day and evening. Nobody was home.” Ray tried not to let the man distract him, but something about his body language was making him nervous.

  “Are you Mr. Green?” Ray called.

  The man didn’t answer, so Ray decided to take that as a yes.

  “We’ve been trying to contact you, sir. We wanted to get your side of the story on the pig incident with your neighbor. Would you like to comment on camera?” Ray asked, unsure if this man was “live interview” material.

  The man still didn’t answer.

  Ray glanced at Beaker, who looked like a ball of nerves.

  Ray concentrated on his notes again. Or tried to. It would’ve been easier had a crowd been staring at him. There was something disconcerting about just one man standing there in the dark.
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  Beaker walked to the other side of his tripod-mounted camera and whispered, “I told you Roarke was right about this street.”

  “News Channel 7, working around the clock to bring you the news.” The show opening rolled, and the familiar ten o’clock music filled the control room. Hugo stepped back to watch. The director of the ten o’clock show, Willis Hill, called out his directions with precision and calmness. Everything looked to be on track. The only thing making Hugo nervous was Gilda. It was subtle, but he could tell something was not right about her. She kept doing a really odd little number with her finger. She would place it above her eyebrow and lift. And then she’d move it over to her temple and pull. Tate had the tics, not Gilda. He couldn’t imagine what she was doing, but he just prayed her wandering fingers would find their way to the news desk and stay put.

  “And…camera two,” Willis said.

  On the monitor, Hugo watched Gilda carefully. Thankfully, she turned it on at the last second. “Good evening,” she said in her authoritative voice, her fingers laced together on top of the desk. “I’m Gilda Braun.”

  “And I’m Tate Franklin,” Tate added.

  “We have breaking news tonight,” Gilda said. “Word of a tanker-truck explosion on 1-35, just south of Clayeton. Ed Klawski is there with Chopper 7 covering it. Ed, some amazing pictures you’re capturing.”

  “Go to video,” Willis said.

  A ball of fire exploded onto the screen, lighting up the night sky. It was quite a picture. A small box in the upper-right-hand corner showed a still shot of Ed’s face, and Ed started shouting out his report.

  “That’s right, Gilda! We’re flying right above the scene! I’ve never seen anything like this! People are scrambling everywhere! We’re hearing that the trucker may still be trapped in the cab, but we cannot confirm that at this time!”